


Doubt Thou The Stars Are Fire

by tepache



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Super Sons (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Birdflash - Freeform, Damian Al Ghul - Freeform, Dick Grayson is the real MVP here, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Good Parent Talia al Ghul, Hurt/Comfort, If You Squint - Freeform, League of Assassins Damian, M/M, Not in my book, Slow Burn, Star-crossed, also get rid of the Everything Kryptonian Is Neon Green thing, den mother dinah lance, everything relating to krypton is PURPLE, i have no fucking idea how tags work guys, kind of, my love for him shines through in every single scene he's in, nah son, no beta we die like damian's character development, she gets a small redemption, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28606464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tepache/pseuds/tepache
Summary: "I didn't fall in love with you. I walked into love with you, with my eyes wide open, choosing to take every step along the way."―Kiersten White, The Chaos Of Stars
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jonathan Kent, Jonathan Kent & Bruce Wayne, Jonathan Kent & Dinah Lance, Jonathan Kent/Damian Wayne
Comments: 34
Kudos: 144





	1. non est ad astra mollis e terris via

**Author's Note:**

> I have read over this monster entirely too many times and I refuse to edit or change it so here we goooooooooo

**“non est ad astra mollis e terris via” : there is no easy path from the earth to the stars**

Grandfather’s anger was a sight to behold.

His voice rose to feverish pitches when he was upset, roared with laughter when he was amused. But his anger was motionless, calm. As still as the Lazarus Pit, with a mere ripple on the surface to betray the tumult of emotions underneath.

Seeing Grandfather on that throne, fingers tapping the golden-gilded arms with emerald rings, Damian felt a phantom sensation in his own hands. At seven years old, Damian was expected to grow beyond petty pleasures such as the sketchbook he had hidden away. Ra’s firm hand snapping each charcoal-stained finger was a vivid memory, and a reminder to never incur his wrath.

A lesson his mother was well versed in, yet never seemed to learn from.

Mother was yelling about Batman, kneeling in deference but head raised in challenge, and Ra’s spoke calmly back, his hand tightening ever so slightly on his staff. Batman was a topic that Mother and Grandfather argued about often. Damian had no idea why. Every couple of months,  _ something _ or the other about that man would end up being the League’s new gossip, Mother would sneak away to see him, and Grandfather would seethe about the man that kept refusing his offers to join the League. Damian once asked, if Batman never listened, why didn’t Grandfather just abduct him by force?

The blow from Grandfather’s staff sent Damian skidding across the throne room.

Never once had Damian considered there was a man out there that could best Ra’s in a fight. (A man. Lady Shiva knocked Ra’s down a couple pegs every time she visited).

Still, no matter how much intrigue the Dark Night seemed to bring, this argument had grown tiresome. Mother’s voice was a tad louder than usual, and Grandfather’s normally stoic face had more twitching of the eyebrows, narrowing of the eyes, and pinching of the lips than Damian expected. But at the end of the day, it was just another worthless skirmish about a man Damian would never meet. So he tuned the argument out.

A mistake.

Mother’s cry of pain shocked Damian back to his senses instantly, because the fact that Mother had allowed herself to let out a noise at all meant something was terribly wrong. Ignoring his Grandfather’s orders to stay at his side, Damian rushed forward. If Ra’s truly wanted him to stay, then he’d be held back. As it was, the Demon’s Head allowed his grandson to run towards his mother, small hands cradling shaking shoulders. The wound on her breast was deep, but nothing Mother hadn’t dealt with before, so Damian tried to figure out what was causing her shaking and sweating, frantically raving his eyes over her body, before catching sight of the wound itself.

Green tendrils crept outward, sinister yet almost beautiful in their delicacy. Easily missed. Easily mistaken for veins. But Damian knew what his Grandfather’s cursed blades looked like.

Allowing himself a breath, Damian turned to face Ra’s.

“Permission to take my mother to the healer?” His voice was steady, high and childlike but confident nonetheless. 

Evidently, Ra’s was as well, because with a nod of his head and a wave of his fingers, he dismissed them. Grandfather shot a cold look at Mother while Damian heaved her to her feet, and as she found her footing, she glared back.

Mother’s steps seemed to falter the closer they got to the healer’s chambers, but the gritty determination never left her face. He once believed that this room, of all places, should offer some form of comfort and reassurance, should soothe the wounded and injured. Instead, Damian helped lower mother onto the cot, ignoring the healer’s cold demeanor and harsh words ringing out in the stale air. Damian was allowed to stay in the room while the healer mixed different ashes and herbs, creating a paste to counteract the cursed blade’s effects. Damian noticed he never gave her anything to alleviate the pain. Mother never mentioned it either.

The healer left the room to give Mother privacy, a safe space to collect herself. Damian moved forward, reaching his hand out, but she shook him off.

“I’m fine,  _ beta _ . Nothing I can’t handle.” 

Privately, Damian thought Mother’s complexion was about thirty shades away from  _ fine _ , but he remained quiet, standing behind her in a silent show of support. 

They made their way to the living quarters, stepping into Damian’s room. Lavishly decorated, filled to the brim with luxuries fit for the heir to the Demon. Damian still hadn’t decided whether he liked it or not.

Damian thought Mother was headed towards the bed, this being another one of the rare nights when she tucked him into bed with a kiss on the head and murmured well-wishes. Damian ached for those nights, though he knew too many would make him soft. Instead, Mother headed towards the balcony, opening the glass doors to let the cool night air sweep across the room. 

Mother settled herself into one of the high-backed chairs, sighing audibly as she leaned into the pillows, and she grabbed. Damian’s hand when he moved to sit on the other. She patted her thigh, twice, then sighed at Damian’s look of confusion.

“Please, Damian. Just this once?”

With a hesitant nod, Damian moved to sit on her lap, back straight. When Mother moved to put her arm around him, his entire body went rigid. This was  _ strange _ .

Still, Mother’s jasmine perfume was familiar and her hands were warm, so Damian relaxed into the hold ever so slightly.

“When a child cannot even accept their mother’s touch, then the mother knows she has failed.” Her voice was quiet, laced with sadness.

“Mother-”

“He will not allow me to stay for much longer.”

Startled, Damian shifted to face her. “What?”

“Our visions have begun to...clash. I no longer agree with many of the things your grandfather preaches. And we both know he does not tolerate rebelliousness.”

“But you’re his  _ daughter _ .” 

Mother laughed softly. “Yes, I know. Beyond the heir that I could give him, though, that never meant much of anything.” Then, she turned to look at Damian, and her gaze had more softness in it than Damian had ever seen. “Tell me you believe differently.”

Well, before today, Damian was sure the rare feelings of affection Mother whispered into his hair before kissing him goodnight were imaginary. So he wanted to tell her he was pretty sure she shared her father’s stance on familial love. But Mother was tired, body fraught with desperation and fatigue: more emotion than Damian had ever been allowed to see before. 

“I know you care about me, Mother,” Damian found himself saying.

“That’s good enough for me,” she smiled, her posture regaining some of its usual poise and strength. Moving Damian to face his back, Mother tilted his chin up, taking in the night sky with him.

“Are your astronomy lessons going well?”

“I’m learning everything the tutor has to teach me,” Damian responded, knowing what was expected of him.

“Hmm.”

And then-there. That little twinkle up in the northwest portion of the sky. A star Damian had caught sight of weeks ago, and had been unable to find on the star charts. For one, it just...did not exist on the star charts. For another, the star seemed to be a bright, burning violet. The colour streaked across the night sky, the fervent glow overpowering any other star in its near vicinity. 

Mother was being surprisingly open today, her gentle touches gaining some depth rather than leaving a ghostly impression on his skin and leaving Damian wondering whether or not she was ever there at all. It would be so easy to ask her, to open his mouth and inquire after that one particular star that had been bothering him for  _ weeks _ . 

But Mother’s arms wound around Damian’s waist, hesitant but  _ there _ . Her skin was rich and earthy, the green rings adorning her fingers glowing with elemental power. Mother was the earth, and Al Ghul family’s roots wound their way through the entire League, from the smallest servant to the bravest warrior, and all the way up to Damian.

It was rather difficult for the earth to understand the sky.

So Damian kept quiet, and held his discovery of the star close to his chest.

* * *

Stars were not supposed to be purple.

Damian knew because he had gone to his astronomy teacher and asked him. Can stars be purple? He said no. 

Well, to be fair, he had said stars that glow purple and green could not be seen because of the way humans perceive visible light. Either way, Damian now knew that stars could not be purple.

Which left two options: Damian was a metahuman and could see light in ways that others couldn’t, or that thing up in the sky wasn’t a star.

Damian went to Grandfather and asked if he was a metahuman. Grandfather laughed in his face.

  
Then, Damian went to Mother and asked if he was a metahuman. Mother ran a couple tests, and after two days, returned and told Damian he was, in fact,  _ not _ a metahuman.

The only other option was that thing in the sky was not a star.

So if it wasn’t a star, what was it?

That question took over Damian’s waking hours, filling his brain with questions upon questions. His astronomy tutor was surprised at the sudden interest, but pleased at the thought that Mother wouldn’t kill him so soon if he was being of use to her son. 

Damian knew Grandfather was growing unhappy. His other subjects were neglected, and though he hadn’t deteriorated in combat and weapons training, it was clear he was distracted. 

“It’s a research project,” Damian replied whenever asked. And what a research project it was. Damian devoured book after book, text after text, going over possibility after possibility. It wasn’t a comet, it wasn’t an asteroid. Earth did not gain another moon. The only spacecraft orbiting the Earth big enough to be visible was the Watchtower, and if the Justice League’s headquarters were truly that easy to find, then they were the idiots Grandfather always said they were.

The only other option Damian could think of was a spacecraft from another planet, but if that was the case, the Justice League should have intercepted it already. Right?

* * *

Grandfather’s fights with Mother grew more and more common, more and more vicious. Damian wasn’t sure he fully understood the kind of explosive anger his mother was capable of until now. 

Unfortunately, a significant part of their feud was  _ him _ . They picked and plucked at him like a puppet, a mere pawn in their game. Grandfather wanted the heir he’d been promised, the thrum of the demon inside a boy who wielded a blade like loyalty and loyalty like a blade. Mother wanted the remaining piece of a long lost love she would never tell him about, someone to fight and live and die alongside like a proper family.

Damian just wished both of them would leave him alone.

Of course, he didn’t have a death wish, so he never voiced this aloud. He turned his focus to his studies, to his teachings. It was easy to lose himself in the arc of a blade, in the throb of a bruise, in the script of books. Astronomy clung tight to him, took his focus unlike anything else.

A large part of it was that godforsaken star. 

That star that Damian tried and tried and tried and always failed to find. It wasn’t in the star charts, it wasn’t in different constellation maps. It wasn’t in academic journals, it wasn’t in NASA’s database. Damian was half convinced he was hallucinating the thing, but both his astronomy teacher and his mother could see it when he pointed it out to them.

They failed to understand Damian’s fascination with it, but that wasn’t very high on Damian’s list of priorities.

Damian took to talking to the star. He felt silly, at first, but something inside him tugged at that violet gleam against pitch black. It was almost as if the star was  _ his _ , as if the purple streaked across the sky just for him. If nothing else, it was a relief to talk about his day to someone without fear of judgement. 

Stiff musings voiced aloud turned to hesitant words about his day, hesitant words about his day turned to quick sketches of the star, quick sketches of the star turned to a confidant to talk to.

When Damian was sure no one could hear him, he voiced his fears, his grandfather’s limited patience, his mother’s desperate rebelliousness. The star did not chide him for letting his guard down. The star did not punish him for showing weakness. The star did not strike him for daring to be anything other than impenetrably strong. 

The star simply twinkled in the sky, soft and welcoming.

* * *

There was a dull  _ shink _ of a blade being drawn. There were frantic and brutal sounds of fists hitting flesh, of fearful fighting. There was a muffled gurgle, betraying not an ounce of pain.

Then there was silence.

* * *

“Mother is dead,” Damian told his star, his tone somber but serious. His hands were twitching, tight with the knowledge that he could have helped.  _ He could have helped _ . He could have saved his mother. Instead, he stood by Ra’s throne, terror paralyzing him and rendering him useless as his mother fought for her life. 

Damian had yet to cry. He doubted he would. 

“Grandfather says he wants to personally oversee my training, now. There’s nothing stopping him from turning me into his perfect heir.” 

Damian paused, squinting. For the past couple of days, it seemed the star was growing closer and closer. The idea seemed ridiculous, but right now, Damian could swear it was larger than ever before.

A tiny voice in the back of Damian’s head suggested the star knew he needed a friend right now, and was coming to help him. A larger voice said that was foolish and laughable. Even his mother couldn’t stay alive for him, what were the chances a  _ star _ of all things would?

But now, gazing up, not only did the star seem bigger, it was  _ moving _ .

“Are you trying to come to me?” Damian said, almost daring to hope.

The star grew larger and larger and suddenly, with a flare of violet, it….disappeared? It was just gone. Frantically, Damian leapt onto the railing of his balcony, scanning the sky for that familiar purple glow. Surely it had to be  _ somewhere _ . Stars didn’t just cease to exist. 

But it was nowhere. Nowhere to be seen at all.

Damian wasn’t sure what he was feeling. For years, he’d doubted his mother truly loved him at all. Now she was gone. For months, his imagination had turned this star into...what? A friend? Now it was like he’d been talking to himself the entire time.

“I  _ was _ ,” Damian mumbled to himself. “It was just a star. It had no idea I even existed.”

Still, Damian couldn’t forget those nights he’d gazed up into the black and blue watercolour of a sky, letting his secrets and truths trip off his tongue and dissolve into the night, believing the light from  _ his _ star was washing over him. 

He should forget about it entirely. He had acted childishly, making up something of an imaginary friend. It had no place in the life of an Al Ghul, in the mind of the future Demon’s Head. 

_ One last time,  _ Damian thought.

He turned to face the sky once more, and his words came out fast and quiet, almost like a confession. “The League has roots stretching far and wide, all across this earth. After tonight, Grandfather will ensure that I am trapped in them. And there is no easy path from the earth to the stars.” 

Then, Damian smiled, a sad little thing but present all the same. “Thank you,” he said. “For listening.”

He turned and breathed in the chill of the open air before closing the balcony door, the siren call of the glittering stars out of sight.

* * *

The next morning, Grandfather sent for him. As Damian knelt at the base of the gilded throne, he tried his best not to flinch away from the cruel smirk stretching across Ra’s face and weakly hoped he wasn’t summoned for anything to do with his mother.

Luck was on his side. 

“One of my sources inside the Justice League has informed me of something particularly interesting. Yesterday, they uncovered the cloaking of a lone escape pod, with an alien inside it. They have taken the pod into the Watchtower.”

Damian blinked, filtering in that information. It was interesting—Grandfather had known the League had been involved in intergalactic affairs for years now—but Damian failed to see how it was particularly relevant. He decided to respond safely.

“Thank you for informing me, my lord.”

“I am  _ informing _ you,” Ra’s drawled, “because the cloaking on the pod made it seem like a star to all scanners and radar systems.”

Damian’s breath caught.

“My informant also tells me that when the Justice League took the pod in, it was  _ glowing _ . Would you like to guess which colour?”

Almost numbly, Damian answered, “Purple.”

“Precisely.” Ra’s said. “So put aside your stupid little obsession with that stupid little star. It  _ wasn’t _ a star, and now, it’s not of any importance. It should not matter to you in the slightest, understood?” Venom slid along Grandfather’s tone smoothly, and there was a hand resting lightly on his staff: a clear threat.

Damian could only respond, “Yes, my lord.”


	2. ad astra per aspera

**“ad astra per aspera” : through adversity to the stars**

If Batman hadn’t had the foresight to soundproof the living quarters wing of the Watchtower, Jon’s scream would have rung throughout the entire satellite. As it was, Jon woke from his nightmare, clutching the blanket so hard he tore through it, and his scream faded away from the walls of Jon’s room. He took a couple deep, shuddering breaths, eyelids squeezed resolutely shut. He wasn’t sure his laser vision wouldn’t disintegrate his bed the minute he opened his eyelids. 

Fighting for control, Jon went through a breathing exercise Black Canary had taught him, letting the filtered oxygen fill his lungs. Slowly, he eased his death grip on the now-tattered blanket. Slowly, he opened his eyes and let the familiar sight of his room take shape. 

_ Whenever I have a nightmare _ , Black Canary had told him,  _ I find that a nice, warm cup of hot cocoa always seems to chase the fear away. _

Clumsily, Jon climbed out of his bed. He could hear his teachers wincing in his head as he stumbled into the hallway, but Jon was in no mood to rein in his strength and turn it into grace. Still, his steps evened out as he reached the mess hall, and the industrial lighting that had once seemed so harsh now filled him with a sense of comfort.

Entering the mini kitchen to the side of the actual kitchen, Jon found Cyborg stirring some sugar into a drink. The man looked up and smiled when he caught sight of Jon’s rumpled form.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Victor’s voice was deep and rumbling. 

Jon shook his head, and walked over to the drawer where he knew the various tea bags and drink packages were. Rifling through it, he brightened. found a pack of instant hot chocolate.

“Ah,” Vic let out a low chuckle. “Nightmare?”

Jon made a noise of assent as he poured milk into a mug, then stuck it in the microwave to warm up.

“I swear, Dinah’s got us all addicted to the stuff.”

“It helps,” Jon said defensively.

“Nah,” Vic smiled, taking a sip of his own hot chocolate. “What helps is knowing someone out there cares enough about you to tell you how to cope, and someone else takes the time to stock the kitchen with a warm drink just for us.”

Stirring in the mix, Jon tapped the edge of the mug with a metal spoon. Briefly, he wondered just how much of his strength he would have to use to shatter the mug. How much of his strength he would have to use to shatter the spoon. Then, the moment passed, and he tossed the spoon in the sink.

“The hot chocolate is nice though,” Jon said.

“You can say that again. Bats always gets us the good stuff.”

“Honestly, I think that’s because Nightwing makes him. Whenever he comes to the Watchtower, the first thing he does is check if we have hot chocolate, and if we don’t, he complains until Batman gets more.”

At that, Victor let out a snort. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

They fell into silence, each occasionally taking a sip. The hum of the life support systems in the Watchtower mixed with the gentle whirr of Vic’s mechanical limbs, forming a reassuring symphony in the back of Jon’s mind.

Victor broke it with a gentle voice. “Wanna talk about it?”

Jon shrugged. “Same old, you know?”

He wasn’t lying. That stupid nightmare plagued him often, much too often than he admitted. Still, it’s not like he could do anything. Talking about it,

— _ Dad’s frantic voice, one amongst millions as Krypton was pulled into their collapsing supernova of a star Jon used to love _ —

never seemed to change the nightmares. Telling the Justice League about his family,

— _ Dad being called to the Kryptonian Council, as one of their strongest to try and protect the planet from the sun, hugging his family one last time. Mom frantically hurrying her two children to the military’s escape pods, dodging fireballs and ignoring the blistering heat, Dad’s high access getting them first in line (not that it mattered. Firebombs were killing people left and right). Kon holding Jon tight against his chest, shielding him from Mom’s screams as she burned up. Kon’s trembling but oh-so strong arms pushing him into an escape pod, keying in the coordinates for Earth and tucking Dad’s credentials into Jon’s burned and shredded jacket with shaking fingers _ —

only garnered sympathy that he didn’t want. No matter how many of Black Canary’s therapy sessions she dragged him to,

— _ Kon’s bloody lips pressing against his hair as he gave Jon one last hug, telling Jon in steel-toned voice, “Survive” _ —

he couldn’t get the blinding light of the once-benevolent sun out of his head, the soft purple planet he called home collapsing into nothing. So Jon dealt with it,

— _ Kon pushing him into the escape pod, putting him into cryosleep so he’d survive the journey to earth, the image of heat and light and colour and destruction burning into Jon’s eyes as the last thing he saw before he drifted away _ —

one hot chocolate at a time. Victor sighed, as if he knew the feeling. “Well, Batman is coming tomorrow, something about an island of murderous dinosaurs. He’s gonna wanna see you, so I’d try and get some more rest.”

“Maybe,” Jon said, finishing off the last of his hot chocolate. Sleep wasn’t very likely, but he had some homework from his weird-superhero-school-that-Batman-insisted-he-do. Although it grew tiring, Jon had to admit that math was a good distraction.

“G’night kiddo,” Vic ruffled his hair as he walked past the man, and Jon gave him a tired smile. 

* * *

Batman had been called the minute Mister Terrific had identified the Kryptonian escape pod, and Batman was the one who had helped Wonder Woman pry open the doors and revive Jon’s motionless body. Batman had gone through his father’s credentials, sparing a brief moment of silence for the death of the Kryptonian Ambassador to Earth, a gentle and kind man by the name of Kal-el who made many diplomatic trips to the Watchtower and had sometimes brought along his eldest son, Kon-el. Batman had analyzed every bit of Kon’s hastily written note, detailing the destruction of Krypton and pleading the Justice League to protect his younger brother, the sole survivor. Batman had been with Jon when Jon woke up, disoriented and frantic and grieving. Batman had ridden out Jon’s sobs, made arrangements for Jon to stay at the watchtower. Batman had visited Jon often in the past three years, sometimes with some of his own children in tow, much to Jon’s delight.

Despite all this, despite  _ everything _ Batman had done for him, he still scared the ever-loving  _ life _ out of Jon.

Nightwing had laughed, told Jon that Batman was nothing to be frightened of, that his hulking and looming and terrifying way of knowing everything at all times was just him showing he cared, that the man was actually a big ol’ softie when it came to kids.

Jon was pretty sure Nightwing was suffering from delusional hallucinations. Either that or head trauma.

Jon had shyly asked Nightwing how he was so sure Batman didn’t hate him, and wasn’t locking him up in the Watchtower for being a threat to Earth. The hero had stared in disbelief and asked what on  _ Earth _ gave Jon that idea?

Jon had shrugged, pointed to Batman’s brusqueness, emotionless white lenses from the cowl, his tendency to only visit once every couple of months.

Nightwing had cheerfully informed him that was Batman’s way of showing affection.

Then, Jon had asked how Nightwing could understand Bat-speak so easily, and how he never really seemed all that phased at the living embodiment of darkness despite Batman’s growling voice and spine-chilling glare. 

“Someone needs to keep him humble,” Nightwing had told him breezily. “I ain’t no goose and I ain’t no noose, fight club meets on Wednesdays.” He placed the hat he’d stolen from Green Arrow on Jon’s head, then had wandered off to try and take Hawkwoman’s mace without her noticing.

And people wondered why Jon said Nightwing was his favourite superhero.

Unluckily for him, Jon did not possess Nightwing’s utter lack of fear in the face of the Bat, so he settled for cowering and hoping he didn’t do anything to make the man mad when faced with Batman’s attention. 

Jon went through a routine debriefing in his room, in which he told the man he’d perfected a drop-kick, decided he didn’t really like coding and didn’t want to continue it if that's alright with him, learned how to make mashed potatoes and also about fifty new English words from Wally West, and didn’t remember any important information about Krypton that he hadn’t already said. 

Gruffly, Batman asked, “And you...you’re doing alright?”

A little confused at the question, Jon responded with, “Yeah! Totally, I’m doing great!”

With a nod, Batman said, “Good,” and left his room to go talk to Wonder Woman about those murderous dinosaurs.

Jon stared after the man, congratulating himself for surviving another successful conversation with the Batman, when he heard a loud sigh behind him.

“Jesus  _ Christ _ ,” Nightwing complained. “I thought with me here he’d be a little more open, but I guess not.”

“Open?” Jon asked. “Open about what?”

Nightwing hopped onto his bed and gestured for Jon to sit next to him. “Black Canary says you’ve been acting a little down. Wanna tell me what that’s about?”

“It’s no big deal,” Jon said. “Nightmares, the normal stuff. I’m good.”

Somehow, the white of Nightwing’s domino mask never gave Jon that emotionless terror that Batman’s cowl provided. Instead, with the hero’s pursed lips, they almost gave Jon the impression of squinting in concern.

“You’re a terrible liar, you know,” Nightwing said.

“I—I’m not lying!” Jon protested.

“And I thought  _ Robin _ couldn’t lie to save his life. You’d like him, I think. I mean, he’s a good bit older than you, but you’d like him more than me.”

“I like you just fine!” Jon said automatically, before he registered what Nightwing had said. “Wait, I can meet Robin?”

“So that’s what it is!” Nightwing sounded triumphant.

“What?’

“You’re lonely.” His tone was very matter-of-fact, but he was soft when he pulled Jon into a hug. 

Squirming for a minute, Jon sighed. “It’s just, it’s been  _ three years _ already! By human standards, I’m already thirteen years old! And I’ve never even left the Watchtower.”

“Claustrophobic?”

“Kinda,” Jon shrugged. “There’s only so many times you and the Flash can make pancakes together.”

“Hey!” Nightwing looked indignant, but sounded amused. “I happen to like Wally’s pancakes  _ and  _ his company.”

“You like Wally in general,” Jon pointed out. 

“True. So, you’re feeling a little itchy. Restless, huh?”

After a pause, Jon acquiesced. “Yeah.”

“Well,” Nightwing’s grin was blinding. “Good thing we can do something about that.”

And Nightwing made good on his promise, leading Jon to the zeta tubes and waving away Jon’s guilty concerns, saying he’d take the fall if they were caught. He took Jon to a rooftop in Gotham, a short visit so as to not overwhelm him. Still, Nightwing sat back with a pleased little grin as Jon stared open-mouthed at the vivid brush of colours along the sky.

“Gotham’s pollution problem is awful,” the older man said, “but it makes for some beautiful sunsets.”

Entranced, Jon could only agree. The burning red and gold was a flame licking the edges of the buildings, but softer than the ones that haunted Jon’s nightmares. The gold gave away to a deep orange which gave away to a soft pink, the peachy tones swirling together and warming Jon up. Next was a brilliant violet that faded into a myriad of purples, the same range of colours Jon knew made up his own eyes. The blue came next, drenching the sky in something heavy, but comforting all the same. And though the stars weren’t visible, Jon found the hazy black just as beautiful.

And people wondered why Jon said Nightwing was his favourite superhero.

* * *

It was a one time thing, Jon  _ knew _ it was. A treat that he was only supposed to enjoy once. Yet Nightwing had given him a taste of the  _ world _ , a means to immerse himself in light and sound and colour and  _ sensation _ , a far cry from the rigid white and grey of the Watchtower. Jon was helpless to his want for more. 

So he snuck out. Again. And again and again and again and  _ again _ .

* * *

Krypton was the swoop of metal, the curve of a particularly beautiful piece of architecture. Krypton was his father’s giant arms sweeping him into a hug. Krypton was domesticated beauty, filtered sunlight. Krypton was his mothers pointy shoes and bright lips and delicious cookies. Krypton was mile high buildings with skylights for the sun. Krypton was his brother’s fond punches and rakish laughs. 

The Watchtower was clean, straight lines and still air. The Watchtower was Dinah’s routine lessons, Victor’s good natured chuckle, Wally’s easy company. The Watchtower was the whirr and thrum of utterly perfect machinery. The Watchtower was Batman’s dark gaze and cautiously given trust. The Watchtower was a jigsaw, each hero coming together to make it whole. The Watchtower was Nightwing’s unrelenting kindness and mischievous laughter.

Earth was messy and loud and imperfect. Earth was pitfall canyons that made flying a challenge and jagged mountains that sent him stumbling to the ground. Earth was nature left unchecked, covering the planet in its beauty. Earth was the kindness of a stranger, homemade food, the never ending chaos of a city. Earth was the constant war between the grit of solid earth and the sinking depths of the untamable ocean. Earth was the careful art of being alone without ever feeling lonely.

* * *

  
  


Mastering flight had been simple after a few of Jon’s secret excursions, and soaring through the air was a joy he could never have dreamed. Today, he was flying over the mountains of Tibet, the cold air a welcome treat. 

Jon let out a loud whoop as he skimmed close to a mountaintop before rocketing upwards. He imagined his family, staring at him in awe of what he could do. But as soon as their astounded grins came into view, they were dashed by his mother screaming in pain, his brother’s choked breaths.

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and Jon angrily wiped them away, his focus faltering.  _ Not now _ , he thought,  _ don’t lose focus _ . But it was too late.

He lost control of his steady glide, tensed his body automatically to brace against the landing. He crashed into a sparsely grassy stretch of the mountain, the crumbling and rough dirt uncomfortable but ultimately leaving him unharmed. He sat up, taking a minute to catch his breath.

“Stupid,” Jon muttered, angry at himself. Ever since he’d started sneaking onto Earth, the nightmares had lessened, but that in no way meant they’d stopped. Concentration slipping through his fingers in the middle of a flight was dangerous, and Jon could have seriously hurt someone.

He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

Determination bolstered, Jon got to his feet and turned, coming face to face with a dark-skinned, green-eyed boy.

Stumbling backwards, Jon let out a little shriek of surprise. Jon hadn’t even  _ heard _ the boy, and he was supposed to have super-hearing. “Who, wha— _ who are you? _ ” The question spilled from his mouth before he clamped it shut, realizing that he probably should not have talked.

Years aboard the Watchtower training with the greatest heroes on Earth and he still forgot to assess the situation before he spoke. (To be fair, it was  _ very _ difficult to catch him off-guard.)

After taking in the boy, Jon mentally groaned, because he  _ definitely _ should not have spoken to the boy first. He had a  _ sword _ strapped to his back, for Pete's sake! With a simple assessment, Jon counted at least four more weapons on the boy’s person, and the way he held himself suggested he more than knew how to use them.

His clothing and shoes were practical, but the fine fabric and superior quality of the garb was obvious. There were gold bands around his arms and gold jewelry around his neck and wrists and fingers. Gold clipped to his ears matched the gold on his eyelids covering dark, serious eyes. And Jon was about to put his foot in his mouth because all signs pointed to this boy being  _ royalty _ or something equally as crazy and Jon absolutely did  _ not _ want to cause an international incident.

He figured apologies were a good place to start. “Uh, sorry?” he said, though he wasn’t exactly sure what he was apologizing for. Trespassing? Unlawful use of air space? 

The boy remained silent, seizing up every part of him. There was something very clearly predatorial in his gaze, and if worse came to worst, Jon maybe would be able to fight him without hurting him too much. Taking a couple steps back, Jon was just about to fly out of the situation altogether when the boy spoke.

His voice was calm and rational, yet there was some incredulity in his tone when he said, in accented English, “You just fell from the sky.”

“It was a flying mishap,” Jon gave the boy a soft smile in a what-can-you-do sort of way.

“A flying mishap,” the other boy said flatly. “You can fly.”

“Well, clearly,” Jon said, gesturing vaguely upwards.

The boy tilted his head, considering Jon’s words, before asking, “Are you with the Justice League?”

_ Affiliated with them, yeah _ , Jon wanted to say, but he remembered Black Canary’s cautionary tales, all the times Batman’s paranoia had paid off. Better safe than sorry, right?

“What’s it to you?”

The other boy looked taken aback for a minute, as if unused to people speaking to him like that, further proving Jon’s royalty theory. He regained his composure remarkably quickly, though, and said, “This land is under my family’s protection. You should not have been able to enter at all, so the fact that we’re talking is...strange.”

Rather than focus on the second part of that response, Jon asked, “Your family?”

“Yes,” the boy said, then drew his chin up as if he were about to announce something of grave importance. Privately, Jon thought he looked a tad ridiculous. “My name is Damian Al Ghul.”

The humor Jon was finding in this situation flew away quicker than a rocket. “Damian Al Ghul?” Jon said, taking several steps backward for good measure. “As in, League of Assassins Al Ghul?”

The boy, Damian, looked pleased with Jon’s display of fear. “Yes,” he said. Part of Jon wanted to march right up to the boy and show him what a Kryptonian was capable of, how he didn’t  _ have _ any fear. But another, much larger, much more rational part of Jon remembered both Batman and Black Canary’s teachings.

The League of Assassins were  _ dangerous _ . They were hardened warriors, with eyes of fire and hearts of ice, with limbs of steel and souls of darkness. Batman had described Ra’s Al Ghul as a fanatic, worshipped as a god among the League, someone who cared for nothing else but expanding his kingdom, expanding his power. He had a daughter, one of the most deadly warriors in the world. But Jon had never heard of a boy named Damian.

But Damian didn’t look very evil and demonic right now. Sure, there was an underlying tautness and feeling of danger wrapping around him like a shroud, but he was staring at Jon with an odd expression on his face.

Or, rather, he was staring straight at Jon’s eyes. Jon looked around the mountain, up and down Damian’s form, trying to avoid Damian’s eyes, but the boy stalked forward and locked their gazes.

“What are you doing?” Jon asked. His fists curled, and readied himself for either a fight or a speedy flight.

But then, Damian said the strangest thing. “Are those your real eyes?”

Startled, Jon dropped tense posture and stared at Damian with confusion. “Are those my  _ what _ ?”

“Are those your real eyes?” Damian repeated calmly, but the tightness around his mouth told Jon he was anything but.

“Yes?” Jon figured the question was harmless. “Yeah, they’re my real eyes. Why?”

Damian searched his face for any sign of dishonesty, then stepped backward. He seemed to be battling with something, unsure of whether or not to trust Jon.

And that made up Jon’s mind. Yes, this was an Al Ghul, a member of the League of Assassins. But Jon lived with the  _ Justice League _ . He’d been taught they were heroes, people worthy of placing trust in. With that look of indecisiveness on his face, Damian was just another boy. 

“You can trust me,” Jon said, in a split second decision. “I’m with the Justice League.”

Green eyes snapped up, fixing on Jon. “You’re with the Justice League?”

Hesitantly, Jon nodded.

Damian took a breath, as if preparing himself for something, before saying, “What do you know about a purple star?”

“What do I—what?”

“Do you know anything about a purple star? It was,” Damian’s voice broke almost imperceptibly. “It was the same colour as your eyes.”

“Um, no,” Jon said, searching through his memory for anything about a purple star and coming up empty. “Sorry.”

Damian’s face shuttered, as if the boy had allowed himself to believe Jon had the answer to whatever question he had been agonizing over. Jon felt inexplicably guilty at not being able to help him. As a sort of last ditch effort, Damian asked, “You’re sure? Nothing about a purple star that disappeared about three and a half years ago?”

“No, I—” Jon began to say, when the time frame hit him. Three and a half years ago. That was around the same time his escape pod had been found by the Justice League. The energy thrusters gave off a purple glow, Jon remembered. It was a long shot, but…

“I think I might know something,” Jon said, and felt a little better about his decision when the boy’s face immediately brightened. “But you’re with the League of Assassins. I’m not sure I  _ can _ tell you.”

Almost frantically, Damian shook his head. “If it’s about the star, and if you’re being serious, then I won’t tell anyone. I  _ swear _ it.” Then, as if another thought had occurred to him, his face hardened. “If, however, you are lying, then rest assured I will kill you faster than you can call for help.”

Well. Wasn’t that comforting. Still, Jon remembered Damian’s earlier desperation and took a fortifying breath. “Three and a half years ago, the Justice League found my escape pod.” He was about to continue when Damian cut him off.

“Your escape pod? You’re the alien!” 

Dumbfounded, Jon said, “You know about me?”

“Not very many people do, but my grandfather keeps tabs of things.” 

Grandfather? Jon’s head was swimming with questions, and he opened his mouth to ask one of them when Damian interrupted him once again.

“Can you come back here? In ten days time?” He shifted, suddenly looking slightly shy, and the expression sat strangely on his confident stance. “I have a couple things to ask you.”

“Yeah, sure,” Jon responded automatically. “But what—”

The boy was gone before Jon finished his sentence, melting into a thicket of trees and vanishing from sight. 

* * *

The Justice League was probably one of the largest intelligence organizations in the world, so Jon was understandably surprised when he searched for any mention of ‘Damian Al Ghul’ and came up with nothing. Pages and pages of information on Ra’s Al Ghul’s insanity, a strangely detailed account on Talia Al Ghul, but nothing on a boy named Damian.

Jon was beginning to entertain the notion that Damian had been lying, despite his steady heartbeat, when Batman came into the monitor room.

“Why are you researching the League of Assassins?” He growled, almost furious. 

Jon had somewhat of a Pavlov reaction to that voice, because he immediately jumped and cringed in fright. Seeing his fear, Batman seemed to calm a little, but the ginormous black shadow seemed angry all the same.

“I—uh, not much of a reason really, I just—” Man, Nightwing was right. He really could not lie.

“Jon,” Batman said, his tone somehow even more no-nonsense than usual. “When you went on one of your little Earthside trips, did you meet a League of Assassins member?”

Squirming, Jon said, “You knew about those?” At Batman’s judgemental silence, Jon slumped and muttered, “Of course you did. I’m sorry.”

“Black Canary has been keeping track of your trips,” Batman said, “but Nightwing convinced me they were harmless. However, if you truly encountered the League of Assassins…”

“I didn’t mean to!” Jon burst out. “He was just  _ there _ .”

“Did you say anything incriminating?”

“No,” Jon shook his head, because other than a little piece of his history, he’d said nothing that would endanger the rest of the League. “And he didn’t tell me much either. All he did was ask about a star.”

That seemed to give Batman a pause. “A star?”

“Yeah, a star. He said it was purple. I, uh, think he was talking about my escape pod.”

After a long silence, Batman growled, “Who is  _ he? _ ”

“Damian,” Jon said, as if the name was unfamiliar. As if he hadn’t been running it through his head since their very first encounter. “Damian Al Ghul.”

The hulking shadow that was Batman seemed to stiffen. “There is no known record of a Damian Al Ghul.”

“I know,” Jon gestured miserably to the computer. “There isn’t.”

There was a heavy silence, and Jon was about to interrupt it with another apology, when Batman ground out, “Go to your room. Or go train.”

Jon bounced up from the chair, nodding immediately, and headed to the door. Thank  _ God _ he wasn’t in any more trouble. When he turned around, Batman had taken his place, staring at the computer screen with an intense glare.

* * *

“You  _ have to _ give a report of exactly what you saw and what you did,” Dinah’s voice was stern. “If, at any time, we feel as if you are being reckless, we will send a League member with you, or revoke your access permanently. You will exercise the  _ utmost _ caution, do you understand?”

All of that filtered through Jon, his brain only latching onto one thing. “But I can still go back to Earth, right?”

Dinah gave him a smile. “Yes, you can still go back to Earth.”

* * *

Finding the right mountain was trickier than Jon expected. At first glance, every single one of them was identical, the jutting slopes and snowy peaks blending into each other. ‘A mountain in Tibet’ wasn’t exactly the most clarifying description. 

Thank god for his super-vision. 

Searching for the one particular spot he’d crash landed at was fruitless, so he set his sights for Damian instead. Movement was easy to pinpoint, and the boy was hard to forget. His sheer intensity was magnetic, and Jon supposed his draw was a large part of the reason he’d gone back to see Damian again. 

That, and his curiosity.

He’d never put much thought into his eyes before. Distantly, he knew most humans didn’t have purple eyes. But Wally’s eyes sparked silver with lighting and Starfire’s eyes were pure green. Compared to other Justice League members and affiliates, his own eyes were normal, with a tinge of unusual colour.

But Damian had looked at them like they were beautiful, like they were the answer to a question he’d been searching for. That night, Jon had scrutinized himself in the mirror, trying to catch a glimpse of what Damian had seen, but was met with nothing but his plain, boring face. And if Jon was being completely honest, he wanted Damian to look at him with that same fascination again.

Jon caught a glimpse of bronzed skin through the net of brushes and shrubs, a flash of gold against the green. He dove downwards, slowing his descent once he approached the mountain. Struck with the sudden urge to impress the other boy, Jon made his landing as graceful as he could, trying to look as majestic as Wonder Woman when he touched down. He wasn’t sure he managed it, but he caught a flash of grudging admiration on Damian’s face, so he counted it as a success.

Damian was much more put together, his body stiff and his face apprehensive. When he stepped forward, it seemed as if he was reading from a script. “You already know my name: Damian Al Ghul, heir to the Demon. I assume since you actually came, you’d be willing to give me yours.”

It looked like Damian was playing dress up, stepping into a role he wasn’t ready for yet. The thought made Jon’s lips curl in amusement as he responded, “I’m Jon. Jon-el.”

Damian nodded, rigid and unsmiling. 

“I said before I would keep these meetings private, and I’ll uphold that. I need to know you will do the same. I am...risking a lot by meeting with you, and I’m willing to bet you are too. So?”

“Of course. I’ll keep this a secret.”

“Good. Now, first I need to inform you that—”

“Damian,” Jon interrupted him, sighing. “You sound like you’re reciting a book. If you’re just going to spend the entire time telling me about ‘rules’ or whatever, then I’ll leave.”

Damian made an aborted movement when Jon mentioned leaving, almost panicked. Taking that as permission to continue, Jon said, “I came because last time I met you, it was like you recognized me. I want to know why. But if you’re going to treat me like a stranger, then I shouldn’t have bothered coming in the first place.”

Jon crossed his arms, an attempt at intimidation. It didn’t work, but it did wear Damian down, and his perfect posture slumped. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.  _ Tell me _ .”

“You were my star,” Damian said, simply. 

“I...I was your star?”

Damian nodded. “Your escape pod? From Earth, it looks like a star. It glowed purple, the same shade as your eyes. It was,” Damian paused, struggling to find the right words. “It was  _ my _ star. Something of a friend.”

“Your friend, huh?” Jon said, what he hoped was a kind smile on his face.

“Friends are something I am somewhat lacking in,” Damian snorted. “Though that’s not much of a surprise.”

“Why?”

Damian looked surprised at the question. “I’m the prince and heir to a throne soaked in blood,” Damian said slowly, as if it was obvious. “I’m an  _ assassin _ . Are you saying you’d like to be friends with an assassin.”

“Yes,” Jon said, moving closer.

“You’re—really?”

Jon shrugged. “You seem lonely. And you’ve been nice so far. I don’t really need any other reason.”

“Oh,” Damian sounded shocked, the happy sort of shocked. 

“So tell me about the star. Tell me about why it was so important to you.”

At that, the other boy’s eyes narrowed in distrust. “Maybe not yet.”

Jon held his palms up, conceding. “Not yet. But I’ll visit again soon, okay?”

Slowly, as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to have this, Damian nodded. “Okay. Ten days.”

Jon grinned. There was a lightness in his chest, one that seemed to lift him right off the ground.

“You’re floating,” Damian said.

Okay, so it  _ actually _ lifted him off the ground. “I’ll see you in ten days.”

* * *

If there was one downside about this, it was lying to Dinah. Jon waxed poetry about a Holi festival in India, about a chocolate factory in Switzerland, about the Northern lights in Alaska. He told her about experiencing the  _ world  _ in his reports, never breathing a word about Damian Al Ghul.

Dinah and Batman would be livid, Jon knew. And for good reason. As Damian slowly opened up, he quietly told Jon about his life in the League of Assassins. The various people Ra’s had forced him to torture, forced him to kill. The people Damian killed because they  _ deserved _ it, vengeance rushing through his veins as he took the life of rapists, human traffickers, thieves with no honour. 

Yes, Damian did his best convince Jon he wasn’t a good person.

Jon wasn’t fooled.

Over ten day intervals, Jon saw Damian admit to the baby snow leopard he’d found and nursed back to health. Jon helped the people Damian snuck out of the League, on the row to be killed for crimes they did not commit, for daring to speak against Ra’s. Jon grabbed papers and pencils from the Watchtower and watched as a picture of his mother flowered on his canvas, as birds and trees and cats came to life on his page. After a year, Damian shyly asked if he could sketch Jon. Jon kept every drawing Damian gave him.

Whenever he could be, Damian was  _ kind _ , and Jon could not be prouder to call him his friend.

Damian never seemed to lose his fascination with Jon’s eyes, either. At fifteen and eighteen, the two of them had grown past stilted conversations and forced familiarity. Instead, Jon leaned against the base of a tree truck, chattering aimlessly about how he won a sparring match against Black Canary the other day with a move Damian taught him. Damian shot him a fond smile over the top of his sketchbook, offering him a casual, “Good job.”

“You should’ve seen her face, Damian. She was so surprised but so  _ proud _ .”

“Mmm, I still think your landing is sloppy. You’ll stumble if you need to go into a roll immediately afterwards.”

“Oh shut up,” Jon shoved Damian’s shoulder, lips folding into a theatrical pout.

Shaking his head at Jon’s antics, Damian said, “Don’t worry, Jon. I’ll run drills with you.”

“Yay, more training.”

“You like it,” Damian waved his hand dismissively. 

“Do I? Do I really?”

“If you don’t want to do them, don’t show up,” Damian said derisively, but relaxed when Jon leaned into him. 

“When have I not shown up?”

“Three months ago.”

“In my defense!” Jon said, “Wonder Woman was there and she wanted to see me.”

“I’m  _ much _ better than Wonder Woman.”

“Wonder Woman has all these powerful antique weapons,” Jon gestured wildly.

“I can wield powerful antique weapons,” Damian protested. “I have seven on my person right now.”

“Wonder Woman has a lasso of truth!”

“And I’m one of the most brilliant practitioners of alchemy in the world,” Damian said, setting his sketchbook down and sitting up, “and I can make a truth serum.”

“Wonder Woman’s one of the most skilled combatants in the world.”

“ _ I _ am one of the most skilled combatants in the world.” 

Damian was growing adorably indignant, and Jon bit his lip to keep from laughing. “Wonder Woman is the princess of Themyscira!”

“I’m the  _ prince _ to the Al Ghul legacy and the  _ heir _ to the Demon’s Head.”

“Wonder Woman’s also really pretty.”

“ _ I _ am…” at that Damian trailed off, flushing.

Jon lost his battle with seriousness, and fell against Damian’s shoulder, rolling with laughter. “It’s okay Damian,” Jon choked out between chortles. “I think you’re  _ very  _ pretty too.”

“Shut. Up.” Damian shoved Jon to the ground. “I’m leaving.” He dusted gold embroidered tunic and stood, pushing his sketchbook towards Jon.

“Alright, alright. I’ll bring your sketchbook to you next time. See you in ten days?”

“See you in ten days,” Damian nodded. Then, after giving Jon a meltingly sincere smile, he vanished into a shadow and, with the blink of an eye, was gone.

Sometimes Jon swore Damian was related to Batman somehow.

Still lightly chuckling, Jon collected the crumpled pages, smoothing dirt off the cream paper and sliding the pencil into the rings. It was when Jon flipped to Damian’s most recent sketch that his breath caught.

It was a drawing of him. His figure was messily rendered, his face given a little more care and his hair lightly shaded in. He was smiling in the picture, an impish grin that Damian always seemed to pull out of him. And his eyes, his eyes were detailed beautifully, intricate and stunning. 

The only thing that was missing was their colour.

And at the top of the page, in Damian’s elegant script, he’d scribbled  _ ‘My Star.’ _

Jon tucked the sketchbook close to his heart and rose towards the sky.

* * *

See the problem was that Damian actually  _ was _ pretty. Jon was sixteen years old and  _ well _ aware of what his best friend looked like.

He was strong and lithe, muscles making themselves apparent in his sleeveless tunics as he showed Jon a new combat move. His hair was soft, and he was short enough to fit against Jon perfectly when he was exhausted after a day of training or a fight with Ra’s, for once laying still enough for Jon to run his fingers through his hair. His lips pulled into a self satisfied smirk with those hooded eyes far too often for Jon’s sanity.

But it had taken Damian over a year to call Jon his friend, and  _ mean _ it. To be fair, he often used the term ‘my star’ instead; he’d said it once and it had stuck. 

Jon couldn’t imagine a world where Damian loved him back, but in times like this, when Damian gifted Jon a full colour drawing of himself, his violet eyes the brightest thing on the page, Jon let himself believe.

And then, of course, he went back to the Watchtower.

Jon had expected the walls of the satellite to narrow the older he got, for the life giving walls to seem like a prison. He expected to rage against Batman’s rules, against the steady schedule and constant supervision.

Instead, he was surprised to realize that his definition of the word  _ home _ had changed from the planet of Krypton to that smoothly running beauty of a machine. 

Having a child grow up in the watchtower was a strange experience. It wasn’t just Nightwing and the Flash visiting with their mentors every now and then as they grew up. Jon’s mark was etched in every corner and crevice of the satellite.

His favourite hot chocolate was always stocked, he strung homemade decorations on the walls during major human holidays, his name was neatly labeled in a cupboard in the changing room and showers. His own room had become something out of a teenage movie: personalized blankets, posters on the walls, a guitar laying by the desk. And, of course, a ginormous stack of sketches from Damian in the lowest desk drawer. 

He’d grown up in the Watchtower, around these heroes the world saw as gods. He’d seen legends retire, he’d seen fresh-faced rookies push the boundaries to make a name for themselves. He’d finally met Robin, along with a smattering of other younger heroes. He’d been given the okay from Black Canary and Cyborg to occasionally help out on missions. He’d met Cyborg’s best friend Beast Boy, met Nightwing’s younger brother sister Black Bat, met Impulse and Nobody and Secret. He’d buried Wally West, looking anywhere but Nightwing, who had folded over in body-wracking sobs. He’d gotten the speedster back, eyes filled with tears and face stretched into a grin as he waited for Nightwing to let go so the rest of the Justice League could greet him.

And he’d dealt with the League members’ increasing comments about how he was  _ growing _ now, and how he needed  _ friends _ and  _ people his age  _ to  _ connect _ with, how they didn’t want him to be  _ lonely _ . 

Jon couldn’t very well explain that for the past three years, he’d been sneaking off to see the heir to the Demon Head, had somehow befriended the prickly assassin, and had sort of fallen in love with him along the way. He couldn’t very well say that he really didn’t  _ need _ any more friends, he already had Damian.

(He’d come so close, too. When he was fourteen, Dinah had sat down and in very practical terms, let him know that she was about to give him the sex talk. If there was one thing that would spare him from this torture, it was bringing up Damian. The teasing smirk Victor had given him did nothing to stop him from turning bright red like an  _ idiot _ .)

Jon had an easy relationship with Damian. Even if no one, not the Justice League and not Damian himself, knew the depth of it, Jon was just happy to be in Damian’s company. Their little field trips all over the world were the most fun Jon had in his entire life, and hearing Damian’s unrestrained laughter as they flew through the air was musical. They pestered and taunted and laughed and loved each other, clashing together just enough to form sparks before folding against each other once again.

Jon didn’t need another friend. He didn’t  _ want _ another friend.

* * *

Jon had to admit that recently, their interactions had pushed the boundaries of just ‘friendship.’

Black Canary selected the day Jon was discovered by the Justice League as his birthday, and the next meet up with Damian after he turned seventeen, Damian gifted him a set of engraved gold bracelets with inlaid emeralds and amethysts.

Haltingly, Damian explained, “This isn’t the Al Ghul family crest. Nor is it the League of Assassins crest. This is...this is  _ my _ symbol. One that I created.”

Jon slid them on and vowed to never take them off. Damian smiled at him, soft and slow, and they’d spent the day wandering a market in Cairo, hands clasped tightly. 

When he got back to the tower, he’d written his report of the bustling Egyptian markets, leaving out the man he’d traversed through them with. Dinah asked about the bracelets, of course she did. Jon told her he’d saved a woman from a man cornering her in an alley, and in gratitude, she’d told Jon to take a free set of jewelry she sold at her booth as a gesture of thanks. When Batman visited a couple months later, he squinted at the markings and ran them through the database, thankfully coming up with no matches.

Jon didn’t know how to feel about the fact that Damian had his own symbol, for his personal use only, and he’d given Jon a set of solid gold bangles with his brand displayed proudly. He settled on feeling pleased.

“Wally said he was going to steal them with superspeed and sell them on Ebay,” Jon frowned, sitting in their clearing. Damian leaned against him, head on Jon’s shoulder. Jon rubbed the engraving on the bracelet, a habit he’d taken to recently. “I told him that if he did, I’d tell Nightwing about the Tomato Soup Incident.”

“The Tomato Soup Incident?” Damian asked.

“I want you to imagine a Green Lantern construct on the top of the Watchtower, outside.”

“Okay, imagining.”

“Now imagine it’s a sphere.” Jon used his other arm to gesticulate, taking care not to disturb Damian. “And imagine Cyborg’s stuck inside it.”

“I think I know where this is going.”

“You don’t,” Jon told him. “Imagine Green Lantern sneezing—”

“Nope, can’t do it.”

“—and the construct accidentally hurtling towards Earth.”

“What?” Damian’s voice was alarmed. “Did anyone get hurt?”

“No, because we got really lucky.”

“You got  _ lucky? _ ”

“I want you to imagine a swimming pool full of tomato soup,” Jon said, somehow with a straight face.

“Oh no.”

“Because a certain speedster,” Jon continued, “Is having Impulse time him to see how fast he can drink the entire thing.”

“Did the Flash get sick?”

“He never even got to taste it. Green Lantern opened the construct in mid-fall so Cyborg could fly, but Cyborg’s jets were still under repairs, so he somehow fell straight into the Flash’s Tomato Soup Pool.”

“Well,” Damian said. “That sounds like an adventure.”

“It’s a great piece of blackmail for all parties involved,” Jon agreed. “And it’s the reason these aren’t on Ebay right now.”

“That’s...comforting,” Damian said, looking the furthest thing from comforted.

“Don’t worry, Damian,” Jon said, nudging the older boy slightly. “There’s no way I’m  _ ever _ losing these.”

“Good,” Damian smiled, then relaxed back into Jon. “Now give me more blackmail of Cyborg.”

Jon’s loud laugh rang through the air. Neither of them noticed the League of Assassins zealot, crouched behind the thicket of plants, recording the entire meeting.

* * *

Jon’s life, at the moment, was perfect. Over the months, he’d grown used to the weight of the bracelets, and they were now a steady pressure against his skin. He had asked Victor to teach him some welding, waving away Vic’s quirked eyebrow at the sudden interest. He wanted to make his own set of bracelets for Damian, quicksilver and steel, a gift in return. He’d gotten the metal, the gemstones, and was just touching down to Earth to secretly grab Damian’s wrist measurements.

What he did not expect was Damian standing in front of him, his face a poorly constructed mask of indifference doing nothing to hide the pain on his face. What he did not expect was to see Damian dressed in full regalia, weapons littering his person, a mask on his face and covered head to toe in the Al Ghul seal.

What he did not expect was the glowing kryptonite dagger in Damian’s hand, the energy radiating off the blade hitting him like a stab to the gut.

What he did not expect was Damian’s trembling voice, saying, “Ra’s Al Ghul, the Demon’s Head and head of the League of Assassins, has sentenced you to die.


	3. astra inclinant sed non obligant

**“astra inclinant sed non obligant” : the stars incline us, they do not bind us**

Damain’s entire body was shaking, his voice was wavering, his eyes were seconds away from blurring with tears. Yet, the utter heartbreak on Jon’s face was, oddly enough, the thing that kept him standing. He had to explain.

Though, it was hard to say much of anything when Jon’s voice rang out through the clearing,  _ their _ clearing. “Damian?”

“I’m sorry Jon, I’m so sorry, I swear I didn’t mean for this to happen.” The words tumbled out of Damian’s mouth, a water faucet of apologies, and Damian knew they would never be enough.

“Your grandfather asked you to kill me?” Jon asked. He was standing at the edge of the clearing, and Damian’s heart ached at the distance that Jon had never once hesitated to cross. 

Damian nodded miserably. “He sent a spy after me, and watched us for a couple weeks. Then, he confronted me and gave me the order to kill you.”

“Oh,” Jon said, voice small and quiet. “How did you get…”

Damian closed his eyes in shame. “Grandfather has an informant in the Justice League. He knew about Kryptonian’s weakness to kryptonite, scoured the world for some, and ended up buying from an intergalactic smuggler.”

“And now you’re going to kill me.”

“He wants me to kill you. You’re too powerful, and he hates that I care for something other than him and the League.”

“You don’t,” Jon took a brave step forward, fighting against the kryptonite. “You don’t have to listen to him, Damian.”

“If I don’t, he’ll kill me,” Damian whispered.

“You’ve betrayed him before, you’ve gone against him before!”

“But never like this,” Damian shook his head. “Never a direct order.”

“You can fight him, Damian. I  _ know _ you can. You aren’t what the league made you.” Jon sounded hopeful now, and it was that tone that shred a hole in Damian’s heart.

“You don’t  _ understand _ , Jon!” Damian cried. Because he didn’t. Jon didn’t know how utterly terrifying Ra’s had become after Mother’s death, how cruel and vindictive and controlling. How Damian’s priorities had shifted from staying out of Grandfather’s way to doing whatever he could to please the man, to make him proud. Because if he made Grandfather proud, then he wasn’t useless to the League. He wouldn’t get thrown away, buried deep underground to join his mother.

He’d never told Jon any of that.

“I can’t go against him, I just  _ can’t _ .”

“ _ Yes _ , you  _ can _ , Damian,” Jon was pleading now, and Damian would do anything possible to take that expression off his face. “Do it for me. If not for yourself, at least save  _ me _ .”

There was a way to take that expression off his face. “I’m sorry, Jon,” Damian’s voice broke on Jon’s name, and with a battle cry, he attacked.

* * *

Sometimes it was easy to forget that Damian himself had trained Jon. Sure, Black Canary would claim she and the rest of the Justice League had turned him into a beautiful soldier with her own grace, the Flash and Cyborg’s intelligence, and Nightwing’s moral code. But Damian knew that most of his determination, resilience, and finesse in fighting moves had come from the hours the two of them spent together, Damian slowly teaching Jon bits and pieces of what he knew.

And he was good. Once Jon set his sights on a goal, he strived to accomplish it. As they grappled for the kryptonite knife, Damian found his own moves being used against him. Even though they were fighting, he felt a sense of pride at seeing how much Jon had improved.

He was still no match for Damian, though. Unwilling to use his full strength and power, hindered from the energy coming off the dagger, and slower as a result. Damian was fast, lithe, had trained his entire life for this.

That didn’t make the fight any less brutal.

Jon had fallen back on instinct, his pleas had stopped in favor of concentrating on keeping himself alive. He was on the defense, blocking Damian’s attacks, dodging thrusts with clumsy moves. Jon got his hands on one of the knives in Damian’s boots, and Damian didn’t think very hard on why he let the younger boy take it. But the minute Jon turned to use the weapon on him, his face crumpled and he threw the knife aside to block a punch with his forearm.

Damian couldn’t fault him, though. If it had been anyone else, this fight would have been over minutes ago. As it were, it felt like his limbs were coated in lead, his heart being crushed around a steel trap. Every connected punch sent a jolt of pain through Damian, every cry of agony forcing tears closer to the surface.

No matter his feelings for Jon, though, they couldn’t overpower his instincts, the responses that had been trained into him since birth.

Jon’s foot got a little too close to Damian’s ribs in a kick, and before he knew what he was doing, Damian had grabbed the leg, shoved the boy off-balance, and knelt over him, legs pinning Jon to the ground and dagger poised over his heart.

“Please,” the word bubbled up from Jon’s bloody lips. “Please Damian  _ don’t _ .”

“I have to,” Damian whispered. “I can’t —I can’t disobey him, I can’t.”

“You’re th’ stronges’ person I know, Damian,” Jon’s words were slurring now. “‘Course you can.”

Something dripped onto the dagger, and it took Damian a second to realize hot tears had spilled over, falling from eyes almost painfully. “I don’t want to,” his voice was shaking.

The kryptonite was clearly taking its toll on Jon; his face was sweaty and his eyes were red rimmed. “Please,” he said again, practically begging now. 

“Don’t,” Damian took a shuddering breath. “Don’t speak. It’ll make it easier.”

“ _ I love you _ ,” Jon’s voice was frantic, as if telling him that was a last ditch attempt.

And wasn’t that the sad thing. Damian knew Jon loved him, had known it for years. It was clear in every mischievous smile, every sketch pressed close to his heart, every hug, every laugh. So to bring it up now? To confess this  _ now _ , when Damian had made it clear he had loved Jon for almost just as long? It was cruel.

With a cry of anguish, forcing every thought out of his mind with a painful shove, Damian brought the dagger down and—missed.

He missed. 

Instead of piercing his heart, the dagger pierced the skin on Jon’s convulsing chest. Damian missed. He’d never missed before, had never failed to hit his target, yet with a body not a foot below him, he’d taken a sloppy shot and—

Jon’s cry of pain was loud enough to crumble the mountain, slapped Damian out of his thoughts. He’d never had a wound before, so Damian imagined the pain was harrowing. Jon was trembling before him and clutching Damain’s clothes and his  _ eyes _ . Damian’s breath caught.

His eyes were glowing a violent shade of violet, as if he’d lost control of them.

They were shining that same shade of purple that streaked across the night sky, that haunted Damian’s dreams, first bringing him nothing but sorrow but then filling him up with joy. They were shining weakly, and Damian could pick that one colour out of a billion.

What was Damian  _ doing? _

This was his star. His only friend, his only confidant, his only love. The star had been there for Damian when no one else was, and Jon had quickly taken his place. How could Damian  _ ever _ hurt him?

“No,” Damian’s voice came out steady but quiet. “You’re all right, you’re okay.”

“Dami,” Jon was fighting for breath, the pain making him woozy, yet he was staring up at Damian. There was still trust in his eyes.

And Damian made his decision. 

Jon was much taller than him, and his limp muscles made him dead weight, but there was no way in  _ hell _ that Damian was leaving him again. With a heave, he lifted Jon into a fireman’s carry, half of Jon’s body slumping on the ground but supported all the same. When Jason Todd had left the League of Assassins, he had a safehouse near this mountain. Well, it was more an abandoned, barely standing cabin, but it would suffice. 

Damian tramped through the mountain, feeling his strength ebb away, but never once stopping. He  _ owed  _ that to Jon. 

Catching sight of the cabin, Damian let out a breath of relief. Jon had slipped into unconsciousness, dangerous in his condition, but Damian could feel a pulse. He burst into the empty cabin with a groan, and dragged Jon over to the bed. 

Jon’s closed eyes fluttered, and Damian left his bedside for a quick moment to grab the lead-lined safe in a hidden cupboard. Dumping the various weapons inside the safe onto the ground, he rushed over to Jon, shaking the younger boy lightly.

Jon let out a weak whimper, struggling to come back to consciousness, and Damian voiced the only thing that had been ringing through his mind for the past hour. “I’m sorry,” he said, placing a hand on Jon’s forehead, gripping Jon’s fingers with the other. “I’m sorry for hurting you, I’m sorry for  _ everything. _ ”

Feebly, Jon blinked his eyes open. “Damian?” he asked, tightening his frail hold on Damian’s hand. “Hurts.”

“I’m going to take the dagger out. You should heal soon after that,” Damian said, making an aborted movement and placing his hand on the hilt sticking out of Jon’s chest. God, it was  _ sticking out of Jon’s chest _ . And Damian was the one who put it there. He felt like he was going to be sick.

“S’okay,” Jon slurred. “Trust you.”

With a sob, Damian pulled the dagger out, immediately putting it in the lead box, and tried to block out Jon’s gasp of pain. When he straightened, though, the wound was still gaping on Jon’s flesh, spilling more blood with every breath Jon took.

“Why isn’t it healing?” Damian asked, frantic.

“Sun,” Jon said. “I need—”

“I’ve got you.” Damian hauled Jon up, shutting his eyes in guilt when Jon muffled a pained moan. Leaning most of the boy’s weight on his shoulders, Damian walked Jon outside as quickly as he could, kicking the door open with his foot and practically shoving Jon into the sunlight.

When the rays hit Jon’s skin, the boy slumped in relief, bringing Damian down with him in a controlled fall. Damian watched the skin knit itself back together, grasping Jon’s hand in a death grip. In ten minutes, though Jon’s skin was still pale, it was as if he’d never been hurt.

Jon took a deep breath, and Damian could feel it against his side. Jon was still hugging him, still leaning on him.

Damian didn’t deserve that.

He moved away, drawing his knees closer to his chest and letting out another broken, “I’m sorry.” Damian wasn’t sure he could ever apologize enough. “I’m,  _ God _ . I’m just glad you’re alive.”

“Yeah, because of you,” Jon said, voice gentle.

“I’m the one that  _ hurt _ you.”

“You missed,” Jon stated simply. “You could have killed me, but you missed. You never miss. And then you dragged me all the way here and saved my life.”

Jon made it sound like that made up for Damian fighting him and stabbing him in the first place. “I know you probably don’t want to see me again,” Damian started, haltingly, trying not to betray how much pain the idea caused him.  _ You deserve it _ , he thought to himself.  _ You hurt your star, and now you have to face the consequences. _

“What do you mean?” Jon had the audacity to sound confused.

“I almost killed you. I  _ would _ have killed you. Of course you wouldn’t want to remain friends with me. I just hope,” Damian took a breath, steeling his nerves. “I just hope you’ll allow me a goodbye.”

A pause. Then, “Did you not hear a  _ word _ I said?” Jon shoved Damian to turn and face him, and his face was screwed up in indignance.

“Of course I heard you, I just—”

“You just  _ nothing _ . I love you, Damian. I told you you could go against Ra’s. And that’s exactly what you did.”

“But not before you were injured,” Damian said. “And I’m the one that  _ caused  _ it.”

Jon shook his head, almost laughing, and  _ how _ could he laugh at a time like this? He leaned forward, hand coming up to cradle Damian’s face with a gentleness Damian didn’t deserve. “You caused it, but then you did everything you could to fix it. Because you are a  _ good person _ , Damian. And I love you for it.”

Jon kissed him, achingly tender and smiling and Damian  _ didn’t deserve it _ .

“Yes you do,” Jon said, and Damian realized he’d voiced that aloud. “But it’s not about deserving it. I’m giving it to you, because I love you.”

Jon was looking at him the same way he always had, those violet eyes glowing like supernovas, that soft mouth pulling up into a smile that seemed like the two of them were in an inside joke against the world, those warm hands breaking every chain that bound Damian to the League and pulling him  _ free _ .

So Damian fell into it, pouring every ounce of regret and sorrow and apologies he had swirling inside of him, and Jon stole them away with a single breath.


	4. sic itur ad astra

**“sic itur ad astra” : thus you shall go to the stars**

Jon was pretty sure the only reason he hadn’t been thrown into the nearest star to burn up and die was because both Nightwing and Black Canary had vouched for him. That, and Damian had come willingly, hands bound, and while he refused to bow his head and surrender his pride, he was quiet and showed no resistance.

Batman had thrown him into the Watchtower’s highest-security prison cell, then turned his fury on Jon.

“You’ve been lying to us for  _ years _ , you’ve been willingly associating with an assassin, you had no thought for what your foolishness could have done to the entire League, and —”

“And I knew the entire time.” Dinah stepped forward, forcing Batman to look him in the eye despite their height difference. “Frankly, Jon is terrible at hiding it. And while the boy may be a threat to the League, I do not believe he’s a threat to Jon.”

After sizing her up, Batman had growled out, “Where’s your proof?”

Dinah nodded her head towards Jon. “Pure gold bangles engraved with Ancient Egyptian as a birthday gift. Combat training that I certainly didn’t teach him, but he never returned from a visit hurt. Stacks and stacks of drawings the boy made for Jon in his room. They’re all beautiful, by the way, if you want to look at them.”

“Are they gifts or are they bribes?”

“B, the kid came  _ willingly _ ,” Nightwing said. When faced with his son, Batman’s rigid posture seemed to soften. “Anyone who’s in the League of Assassins and who’s been captured kills themselves. Ra’s tells them to die with honour rather than potentially betray the League.  _ You _ know that better than most.”

Batman was silent, but Black Canary took the opening Nightwing left. “Exactly. So the fact that the kid let Jon tie him up and let you lock him up in a cell without  _ any  _ resistance? He’s going against the League for Jon. It’s obvious.”

“He is the  _ heir _ to the  _ Demon _ ,” Batman snarled. “He is a direct descendent of Ra’s Al Ghul.”

“So put him on trial,” Dick said. “Assemble the Justice League Court and try him for his crimes.”

Batman stilled, seeming to think that idea over. Then, he said, “The court meets in three days. Jon is not to have  _ any _ contact with the prisoner,” and strode off towards the holding cells. Nightwing gave Jon a sympathetic smile, then went after him, his face changing to something more determined.

Jon let out a sigh of relief. They weren’t going to kill Damian.

Well, Batman didn’t kill. But other members of the League did, and Jon didn’t want to think of what would have happened if he spent all that time convincing Damian to come to the Justice League quietly only for him to be executed as soon as he gets there.

Suddenly, he felt a hand come down on his shoulder and jumped, but it was only Dinah. She raised her eyebrows in silent question.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said, sincerity pouring off him in waves. “But I didn’t know where else to take him.”

“You did the right thing,” Dinah assured him. 

“You really knew? This entire time?”

“I know what someone in love looks like,” Dinah said, amused. “The gifts, the drawings. They’re beautiful.”   
  


“Yeah,” Jon smiled at the ground. “They are.”

“Of course,” Dinah continued. “I thought it was just a prince or the son of a rich merchant or businessman. Something like that.  _ Never _ would have imagined you going and falling for the heir to the League of Assassins.”

Jon blushed, shrugging his shoulders. “Damian is...he’s good. He’s a good person, despite how he grew up.”

“I can tell.”

“Is that why you stood up for him?”

Dinah sighed. “I didn’t stand up for him. I stood up for  _ you _ . It’s clear that you love him, and it’s clear that he doesn’t want to hurt you. That’s all there was to it.”

Throwing his arms around her, Jon pulled Dinah into a hug. He was taller than her now, but she was no less strong when she hugged him back. “Thank you.”

“You’ll have more friends in this case than you think,” she said in response.

* * *

“B, you can’t deny it,” Nightwing’s voice was fierce. It was easy to dismiss him as an easygoing, friendly hero, but when he let that steel-laced, commanding tone take over his voice and body, Jon realized how he was held in such high respect within the League, how he could make Batman bend to his wishes.

“It isn’t possible,” Batman said gruffly. Jon knew he shouldn’t be eavesdropping, not after the mercy the man  _ just _ showed him, but the two of them had gone off with a sort of fervent determination, and Jon couldn’t help but be curious.

“He looks just like you.”

“He looks like  _ Talia _ .”

“Maybe a little, but B, he also looks like  _ you _ .” At Batman’s stillness, Nightwing continued. “At least take a DNA sample.”

“After.” And  _ wow _ . Batman’s voice sounded almost pained, and Jon had rarely heard him show such emotion. “If it’s true, then I can’t have it shaking my objectivity at the trial.”

There was silence, the Nightwing sighed, placing a hand on Batman’s shoulder. “If it’s true,  _ if _ , then don’t blame yourself, okay?”

Batman didn’t respond.

* * *

Damian was calm, much calmer than Jon was. His face was serene, the set of his shoulders proud, his voice steady, even when going up against the might of the Justice League Council.

Jon himself was jittery with nervousness.

Damian glanced at him once, before the trial began, and had offered him a smile. He hadn’t looked at Jon after that. 

Jon watched as Damian faced a stone-faced jury. Each member found him guilty of the crimes he admitted to. But when Green Lantern spewed out, “He’s an  _ assassin, _ ” Wonder Woman didn’t miss a beat.

“I come from a warrior culture. I’ve killed more men than I can count, although I always try to subdue first. Are you willing to put me on trial for those murders?”

Aquaman was quick to back her up, and Green Arrow vocally agreed.

Then, Batman spoke. “My daughter, you all know her as Black Bat. She was raised as an assassin from birth. But the minute she was offered a way out, she took it, and for the past couple of years, has done nothing but try to unlearn what was trained into her and focus on helping people instead.” 

There was silence, then Damian spoke up. “I knew her. Her father was a monster, but she was always kind to me.” Looking Batman straight in the eyes, he said, “I’m glad to hear she’s found a good home.”

Batman stared back, holding Damian’s gaze, but addressed the rest of the jury. “From his actions, it’s clear that the minute Damian Al Ghul was offered an escape and a way to repent for his actions, he took it.”

If Batman and Wonder Woman were both in agreement over something, the rest of the League was quick to follow. 

Still, no one could deny the danger Damian posed, so back to the holding cell it was, though it was much better outfitted, and while he was constantly guarded, he was open to visitors.

The Justice League made a decision, and Black Canary allowed Jon to give Damian a hug before dragging him away.

* * *

A couple weeks later, Jon snuck a look at Damian’s file in the Justice League database. Ever since the trial, and afterwards when he took a blood sample to log his DNA into the system, Batman hadn’t returned to the Watchtower. Nightwing, however, had been back an unusual and puzzling amount of times, and seemed to be trying to hesitantly befriend Damian.

It was safe to say that Damian was confused at being treated with that type of kindness.

Jon didn’t really ‘sneak a look’ at Damian’s file as he did ‘bribe the Flash with chocolate to use his credentials and let Jon look at the system.’ Regardless, the end outcome was useless. Aside from a basic information page, everything on Damian Al Ghul was locked away in a restricted access file that only Batman, Nightwing, Robin, and Wonder Woman had access to. 

Jon asked Nightwing, but Nightwing just shook his head and said, “Not now.”

* * *

“I swear, if that speedster spends another minute talking about the most  _ useless _ of inane topics, I will jab his eyes out with my fingernails.”

“You like him, don’t you?”

The two of them were sitting on Damian’s bed in his cell. Specialized cuffs were around Damain’s ankles, but his room was beginning to fill with personalized items. The sketchbook and case of pencils Jon had given Damian was out on the desk.

“I don’t—he’s occasionally tolerable.”

“Occasionally tolerable,” Jon parroted.

“He has moments when he isn’t being a buffoon obsessed with grease-drenched food.”

“You know,” Jon said, “the Flash is actually technically a genius and he’s won awards for scientific papers he’s written.”

“That’s why he’s tolerable,” Damian said, and Jon stifled a laugh. Trust Wally to make friends with the prisoner, no matter how snappish Damian was.

Damian had been with the League for several months now, and for some reason, Batman seemed to like him. Sort of tolerate him. Was making an attempt to be civil with him. Jon really didn’t know why; he expected Batman to leave Damian to stay in the cell the minute the trial ended. But the man was attempting some sort of relationship with Damian, and everyone on the Watchtower was confused.

Still, no one could deny Damian’s worth. He’d given Batman a wealth of information on the League of Assassins, his high access and importance to Ra’s allowing him to target the League where it hurt. Nightwing had joyfully told them that Ra’s was furious and had denounced any relation Damian had to himself and the League. Damian’s response was a grim, yet satisfied smile.

A couple weeks ago, in a highly controlled and guarded environment, with two Green Lanterns present, Dinah had allowed Damian to spar with her. The fight was fast paced and intense and ended with Dinah on the mat but laughing with adrenaline, and Damian smugly showing her a throw that she hadn’t had any idea how to counter. They were considering letting him do that again.

The other Green Lantern (the cool one, Jon thought to himself) had been suitably impressed with Damian’s drawings, and Jon had often found the two of them sitting on opposite sides of the glass cell wall, engaged in avid conversion about shading techniques. 

The Justice League was growing to like Damian. And with every soft kiss Damian gave him, the bubble of joy in Jon’s chest felt like it would lift him to the sun.

“You’re floating again,” Damian said, though he was amused, having worked out long ago which moods made Jon fly off the ground in happiness.

To get back down, Jon reeled Damian in and sunk his teeth down on the swell of his bottom lip, kissing him insistently slow. 

* * *

Batman had devised a plan.

“It’s  _ my _ plan,” Nightwing said. “Mine and Robin’s.  _ We _ came up with it, not Batman.”

“I was the one that worked out the logistics and details,” Batman said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Robin was short and slim and pale and had the same ability as Nightwing to carelessly smile in the face of Batman’s furious glare that had criminals falling on the ground and most of the League shifting uncomfortably. “It was our idea. If you don’t give us credit, I’ll show the entire League the video of that one time you backflipped off a building, slammed into a billboard, and fell into a dumpster.”

Robin was  _ ruthless _ .

Jaw working, Batman amended, “ _ We all _ came up with a plan,” and Nightwing and Robin nodded, satisfied.

“Yeah I do not care about this plan right now, Robin, I  _ need that video _ ,” Cyborg said. 

“We’ll show you later,” Nightwing clapped his hands, bringing the Justice League to attention. “This is actually kind of important.”

Batman took the floor. “After a year of cooperation, no behavioural issues—”

“—aside from being a bad-tempered, prickly little brat—” Green Lantern muttered.

“—no attempted attacks, escape attempts, or contact with the League of Assassins, myself, Wonder Woman, Cyborg, Black Canary, and Flash have come to the decision for giving Damian Al Ghul freedom.”

“Freedom?” Green Arrow asked. “Like, total freedom?”

“Not total,” Wonder Woman said. “We’ll have to monitor him, and he will not be allowed to leave the Watchtower for at least another year.”

“But,” Cyborg said, “he’ll be given free reign of the public areas of the Watchtower, with the same access level as lower-level League members.”

“You’re just gonna let him do what he wants? Let him go? How do you know he’s not playing the long game, huh?” Green Lantern asked.

“And  _ that _ ,” Nightwing interjected, “is what this plan is for.”

“We’ve called Martian Manhunter to assume his alien form, along with a couple other...unusually shaped League members that Damian has not met yet. They will attempt to attack the Watchtower and kill the Justice League.” Batman laid out the basic plan. “The way Damian responds will tell us whether or not he has truly switched sides.”

* * *

The handcuffs around Damian’s ankles had been removed a month ago. Jon hadn’t been allowed to see Damian the week before the staged attack, and now, looking at the older boy through a screen in the monitor room with Victor and Batman, he bit his lip in nervousness. Damian was playing idly with Jon’s guitar (and what the controversy that had been, giving Damian something that could potentially be used as a garotte wire.) 

The plan was about to be put in motion.

“He’ll be fine,” Vic said, giving Jon a friendly nudge. “You were right about him. He’s a good kid.”

“He’s not a  _ kid _ ,” Jon pointed out.

“You all are kids to me,” Cyborg chuckled. 

Suddenly an alarm blared, so loud that Jon cringed. Super hearing had its ups and downs. On the screen, Damian had immediately shifted into an alert, ready position, heading towards the glass. 

“What’s going on?” Jon heard Damian say through the speakers. 

Wally, who was on guard duty, adopted a serious look. He touched his ear as if hearing something on his comm, and said “Yes sir. I’m on my way,” and sped off out of sight. On screen, Damian looked anxious.

On another monitor, the League members sparred with each other to sell the sound of a fight, trying to do the maximum amount of damage without actually hurting someone. Green Arrow joyfully shouted, “It’s payback time. Anyone got any grievances, take ‘em out on me now!”

He’d nocked an arrow, playfully ready, and absolutely did not expect getting tackled from behind by a flying Nightwing, who had shouted, “ _This is for Roy!_ _ ” _

League members with telekinetic powers and super strength tore holes and punched down carefully marked walls. Cyborg said the Watchtower needed a remodel anyway.

Martian Manhunter assumed a stance in front of the Flash, who was psyching himself up. He was the only one who was getting truly hurt in this, but had repeatedly assured everyone he was okay with it.

After seven minutes, Batman gave Martian Manhunter the okay. The alien nodded, then used his telekinesis to repeatedly shove Wally into a wall, then throw him  _ hard _ down the prison cell line. Jon winced in sympathy.

Wally hit the wall, bloody and bruised, and made a show of coughing up blood. He was healing immediately, but Black Canary had applied makeup on him when the fighting started after going out of Damian’s sight to make the injuries look worse than they actually were.

Damian rushed towards the glass wall, movements jerky and startled. “Flash!” he shouted, desperate. That was a good reaction, and Jon knew Batman had noted it.

“Martians,” Wally wheezed. And wow, he was a  _ really _ good actor. “They’re attacking the Watchtower. The League can’t hold them back—” Just then, Martian Manhunter threw a huge slab of crumpled steel at Wally, who fell down to the ground, faking unconsciousness. 

Then, as if in a movie, the Martian used his powers to destroy the cells in vindictive glee. “J’onn’s totally enjoying this,” Vic muttered. 

But Jon didn’t respond. He and Batman were intently staring at the screen. The last blow had shattered the glass making up Damian’s cell wall. He was free, so what he did next determined his entire future.

“You blood-sucking, inhuman, pathetic  _ bastard! _ ” Damian shrieked. “You’ll  _ die _ for that!”

“That’s good, right?” Jon asked, nervously.

“The killing, no,” Batman said. “The protectiveness over Flash, very.”

Damian had thrown himself into battle, leaping off the walls with a single minded fury, dodging whatever bits of metal J’onn threw at him, and driving his fist into the alien’s face. J’onn dodged, but Damian spun into another kick.

“He was my  _ friend _ ,” Damian growled, swinging a piece of piping at J’onn’s legs. “If you have somehow hurt Jon, I will tear every inch of skin off your sorrowful little body.”

“He is  _ really violent _ ,” Victor raised his eyebrows.

“Violent, but good intentioned. He’s fighting in defense of Flash, and cares for Jon’s safety,” Batman said. Jon felt hope swell up in his chest. Batman reached for the comm unit, and spoke, “That’s enough. J’onn, take him down. Everyone else, either to the medbay or the cell wing.”

“Are we good?” Nightwing asked.

“We’re good,” Batman affirmed.

Jon scrambled after Batman, practically running to the holding cells. Martian Manhunter was holding Damian down, but the older boy was struggling and yelling obscenities and threats.

“Wow, kid, you got a mouth on you,” Wally said.

Damian’s eyes widened, turning his head. “Flash? You’re alive?”

“Alive and well,” Wally affirmed. “Jesus, J’onn, you can ease up a little bit.”

“If I do that, he will kill me.” 

“What is happening?” Damian snarled. “Is this some sort of trick?”

“A test,” Batman stepped out of the shadows, Jon behind him, giving Damian an excited smile.

Damian stilled. “This attack was orchestrated?”

“Yes,” Batman confirmed. “A chance for you to prove your allegiance. Many of the League expected you to escape the minute you were free. Instead, you fought Martian Manhunter in defense of Flash, and demanded Jon’s whereabouts.”

“And that’s...good?” Damian asked, still confused.

“I mean you were a little violent,” Wally said. “A bit more than most people are comfortable with. But your intentions were good.”

“Damian Al Ghul,” Batman growled out, stiff but no less pleased, “you have earned your freedom.

* * *

Damian was wandering the mess hall in shock, hand intertwined tightly with Jon’s. It didn’t seem like he was letting go anytime soon. Various heroes had nodded respectfully at the two of them, and Jon gave them all a wide smile. 

“So I’m truly free,” Damian said, his first words in a while.

“Well, not  _ free _ free. You’ve still got restrictions and stuff,” Jon told him. “Batman’ll explain all that later. But you’re not the League’s prisoner anymore.”

“That’s—I,” Damian was struggling for words, and wow was Jon drinking this in.

“Yeah, that’s very ‘I.’” Jon teased.

Rather than respond with their usual banter, Damian turned to him, and achingly honestly, said, “Thank you.”

Embarrassed, Jon shrugged, “I didn’t do much.”

“You convinced the Justice League to give me a chance. That’s more than I  _ ever _ could have hoped for.”

“They like you,” Jon smiled. “Come on, I gotta show you something.”

Tugging Damian’s hand, Jon led him towards the observatory. A huge reinforced window stretched across the room, and the view was one of Jon’s favourites.

"Are you sure I'm allowed to be in here?" Damian murmered.

Jon shot him a look. "Of course you are."

Damian hummed, then followed as Jon tugged him towards the glass. “You’ve been in space for a while now,” Jon said, “so I figured you should probably get to see it.”

Damian walked, as if in a trance, towards the window. Placing a gentle hand on the glass, he breathed out a little, “ _ Wow _ .”

Jon had to agree. The inky blackness filled the window, dark and deep and mysterious, but the stars peppered the colour with bursts of light. Each one was bright, beautiful, letting out enough light to travel galaxies and beam through the air just so Jon could show Damian this sight. Millions upon millions of them swirled together to form one cohesive chaos of blazing allure.

“The stars are beautiful, aren’t they?” Jon said, gazing out into the depths of space.

“Yes,” Damian said, but Jon turned, and Damian was watching him with wonder. And Jon almost felt his eyes light aglow. “They are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's that.
> 
> ugh. the ending got overly sentimental, but i didn't know how else to end this. also writing for damian is so _hard._ really did not expect that.
> 
> if you enjoyed, comments and kudos would be greatly appreciated


End file.
